Edges
by warmwinternights
Summary: Edges-of resolve, of sanity, of blades, of love, of the world. Literally a fanfiction challenging stereotypes about a show about stereotypes. (Highschool AU; FACE family) Sensitive topics and possible triggers. much love, dear readers.
1. No One Likes Extra Trigonometry Homework

How cool is _this?_ How cool are Papa and Dad? Apparently the gift was Francis's idea, but Arthur picked it out—that was unusually thoughtful of him. Especially since they knew football season ended next weeks, which was always a bummer. And state championships had him all worked up, too—god, this was EXACTLY what he needed. Alfred caressed the case lovingly (um…) before shoving it with a vigor into the dvd port of the Xbox 360. He snatched a controller, flopped onto the bed, and switched on the TV.

"OI! MATTIE! GET IN HERE, BRO!"

_The walls in this house are too GODDAMN thin, _Mattie thought to himself, before hiding the browser window and switching over to a YouTube video about chemistry junk he was supposed to be watching. He trudged into his brother's room (literally 10 feet away) and swung open the door. There were clothes strewn haphazardly over the entirety of the baby blue wall-to-wall carpeting, and one of his trophies had fallen off the shelf mounted to the wall facing him. Meanwhile, Alfred was perched on the edge of his bed in an extreme slouch that _couldn__'__t_ be good for his back, and Mattie would have said so, but he'd be damned if Alfred wasn't talking again.

"Cool, you're here! Look, it's the new GTA! Is that sweet or what?! You wanna play? I hooked up the controller already, and you're logged in and everything, so we can get started now if you want!" Alfred rambled, basically yelling. Maybe that was what knocked over the trophy. Abnormally large sound waves.

"Um, I was kind of busy…" Mattie said, holding up his hand to silence the human trombone (good one, Mattie. Real clever.)

"Time is a man-made concept!" Alfred said enthusiastically.

Mattie stared at him quizzically. "…where did you pick that up?"

"A Dove chocolate wrapper," he responded. "So are you gonna play or are you gonna play?" Still ridiculously loud.

"I mean…I guess…what do I get to do?"

"BE THE HERO!" Alfred yelled, tossing the controller to Mattie and starting up a new slot. Within 5 minutes he had racked up a 4 star danger rating, and Mattie had to swoop in in a military chopper to come save him. They tried to play along with the story, but Alfred kept stealing nicer and nicer cars and starting police chases, and Mattie was having a heck of a time driving up the mountains and taking stunt dives out of airplanes. It didn't take long for them to abandon the plot line, and before they knew it, it was 8 o' clock and a triumphant Frenchman was calling them downstairs to eat.

"_M__on petit ours__! M__on petit h__é__ros__!_ Dinnertime!" rang a pleasant accent from the stairwell.

Mattie hit save and placed the controller back on the table under the TV, then treaded lightly around piles of dirty laundry while inwardly cringing. Alfred turned off the console and scrambled for the door, but not before slipping on some day-old boxers and face-planting on the carpet.

Mattie looked at his brother, splayed out on the floor with his nose buried in a Superman shirt, and sighed, thanking whatever God happened to be listening that Alfred's laziness had cushioned his fall. Alfie had better not mess up his pretty face, it was his only saving grace, as far as Mattie was concerned. He still didn't understand the hulk's obsession with football, either. I mean, tackling people was fun, but then you might as well just wrestle…

Oh look, he was getting up. Didn't look like he had a broken nose, either. Oh well. Mattie waited for him to get back on his two feet, then headed downstairs.

"You really should clean your room."

"I don't have the time."

"I thought time was a man-made concept."

"…fuck you."

Oh joy! Extra Trigonometry homework? That was EXACTLY what Kiku wanted to spend hours of his precious time on this weekend. Not like he had a SOCIAL LIFE or anything. Oh no, because math he would never use again was immeasurably more important than his mental health.

GGGGRRRAAAAAAAAAAAGHPIJIPJOIADJGN[AEIVNM[EINKVL'SZDMC,./X

"愚かなクソ三角法の宿題(1)," Kiku muttered, cramming a notebook stuffed with notes into his backpack (which was even _more _stuffed with even _more _notes) and hoping the teacher didn't speak Japanese. But who knows, it seemed like everyone in this stupid school was from some foreign country. He slung the deadweight of valuable educational material (ripe with academic potential) over his shoulder, nearly hitting some kid in the head. But he ducked just in time, so, y'know, whatever.

"Excuse me? Kiku? May I speak with you for a moment?"

What did they want from him _now?_

"Ah, _g__omen__'__nasai_, Mrs. Miller." Kiku threw on his typical, mysterious-asian-kid-who-internalizes-all-his-feelings-and-secretly-judges-you face and turned around to face his trig teacher. Weaving his way through the haphazard desks (they'd been doing a group lab earlier in the lesson) he eventually made it to the teacher's bland, fake-wood desk.

"Just checking, but are you still available for tutoring on Saturday the 29th? 12 - 4 PM?"

_It looks good on college apps, it looks good on college apps, just put up with it for 3 more years, it looks good on college apps, _Kiku repeated to himself.

"Yes, I berieve so." Oops. Stupid accent.

Mrs. Miller chuckled to herself when she heard the slip. "All right, then. Thank you very much, Kiku, I'll put you on the list."

_I barely have enough time to do my _own _homework, what makes you think I can do everyone else__'__s? _Kiku slapped on a fake smile, "It is my preasure. _Domo arigato."_ With that, he left the room, pissed off and looking forward to his next free. Who knows, maybe he could even get a jump start on that ugly pile of busywork from H Western Civilizations. The halls were huge, but it was nowhere near enough space for 800 students (or their MASSIVE egos. That Gilbert kid and his Austrian friend never shut up about themselves.) and trying to get across campus within 5 minutes was like trying to put in your contacts during a sandstorm (2)—why even bother? Thankfully, there was one stairwell that saw about 6 people a week—mostly horny freshmen couples. It was almost as scary as the stampede of students out in the halls, to be honest. But Kiku was tiny, and everyone else was probably less tiny. So he braved the potential mental scarring the journey could produce and took the infamous stairwell on his way to H Computer Science 1. Naturally, Ms. Amherst was late—no surprise there. And it looked like Mogens (3) wasn't here yet, either. Poop.

He logged onto his laptop, the browser automatically opening to the school's homepage. A gigantic photo of the football team graced the main article, with the headline "NORTHVIEW BULLDOGS BRINGS HOME STATE CHAMPIONSHIP 2ND YEAR IN A ROW; SOPHOMORE QUARTERBACK ALFRED KIRKLAND-BONNEFOY SAVES THE GAME". Kiku let his eyes skirt over the caption at the bottom of the photo, listing all the players from left to right. He'd heard of Alfred Kirkland-Bonnefoy before, obviously, (who hadn't?) but he could never figure out who he was.

Finally Kiku located the quarterback's name, and searched for the corresponding face in the line-up. First row, 3rd to the right…

He almost let out a little "_aww!"_ at the sight of the guy. As much as he didn't want to admit it, (Kiku had an aversion to jocks, and really—who would blame him?) the kid was handsome, with dorky little glasses and a weird piece of hair sticking up out of nowhere, but that was probably just what happened when you wore a helmet that much. Cute—not in the printed-onto-a-body-pillow-and-sold-to-thirsty-fangirls way of cute, but still. Although he was really big. And muscular. If his face weren't so adorable, you could call him intimidating. Kiku entered the web address for Pandora before his mind wandered any further and plugged in his earbuds. The Postal Service graced his ears, and he leaned back in his chair with a little smile. And so he remained, off in his own little world (populated mostly by kittens and the cast of _Free!_) until Mogens showed up with a "totally crazy story, man!" , and then Ms. Amherst came in and then class was starting, and soon Kiku had forgotten all about the sweet little quarterback with the scary muscles and helmet hair.

1 "stupid fucking trigonometry homework", according to Google Translate.

2 A little nod to Gary Larson there.

3 One of the names Himaruya said he would like for Netherlands, and my personal favorite. He doesn't have an official name yet, though.


	2. But Some Are Better At It Than Others

_tap-tap-tap-tap. _

Clothed feet padded up the wooden stairs, stopping at a blue door with a calendar and a whiteboard with messy doodles of—were those riceballs?—scribbled over its surface. With a dainty little _tap-tap-tap_, Francis hesitantly opened the door, the hinges squeaking despite his caution. His pleasant face contorted into a grimace at the harsh noise, but it would take more than a badly-oiled door to wake up Alfred—more like an F5 tornado (if even).

Nevertheless, Francis was quickly put at ease when he saw the behemoth spread-eagled on the bed, ensconced in a deep slumber. He was actually a very quiet sleeper, believe it or not; Mattie was the real snorer. Francis picked his way through the room (_he really does need to give it a thorough cleaning—maybe I'll tackle the mess while he's out, _Francis thought to himself) and managed to avoid the more, um…_pungent_ items. Gently he shook his little hero's shoulder, and just when he thought he would have to resort to the ice water method, Alfred grunted and his eyes slipped open.

"_Bonjour, mon petite héros_," Francis said. "Throw on your clothes and then come downstairs, I got a recipe for Belgian waffles from my dear friend Anri (1) and they are really quite spectacular!"

"Hmmm…" Alfred groaned. "What time is it, Papa? Feels early…" He pushed himself up and grabbed for his glasses, eventually locating the thin wire frames and sliding them in front of his sea-blue eyes.

"A bit earlier than usual, but no harm done. It will be worth it once you taste the waffles," Francis replied cheerfully before gallivanting out of the room. "Try not to dawdle, it would be a shame if they got cold!" his voice trailed, followed by the light padding of socks down the stairs once more.

Alfred was not the kind of guy who liked waking up early for anything, ever. Unless maybe Benedict Cumberbatch was delivering him the waffles. He was hella cute in the _weirdest _way—like if you listed his features on a piece of paper, you'd think he was unattractive, but then it all came together to make one gorgeous face. Dad was a huge fan of Sherlock. Ha—lucky for him. But anyway, back to the point: chances were that the British accent floating up the stairwell _was not_ Benedict Cumberbatch, but in fact a grumpy stereotype sipping his green tea and reading the morning news in an ugly armchair. Therefore, Alfred really _was not _in the mood to get up at 6:00, a full hour before he usually woke up. I mean, school started at 7:30, but all he really had to do in the morning was throw on a sweatshirt and some pants that didn't smell too bad, grab a ProSnax on the way out the door, and he was set. He had even planned his diet down to the last calorie all by himself, to keep him in top shape for football season, and colorcoded things according to time of day, day of the week, and kept them refilled so he never ran out. Maybe if he put all that hard thought into the coursework presented to him, he would be up with Mattie in terms of academic prowess, but honestly? He was smart—just not in the way the common core wanted. Besides, from what he could tell, his football skills were enough to get him into at least his 3rd choice of college; all he needed was a B average. Good enough for him.

Alfred tugged open his closet door—maybe he could wear something a little nicer today, since he had the time to choose. His hands instinctively grabbed for his favorite shirt, the blue one with the Superman logo, and found a hoodie and some cozy jeans. Done. Alfred glanced at the clock. 6:02.

Point proven.

However—_however_—there were still waffles to be munched. Scrumptious, delicious Belgian waffles. Sounded exotic. Why not? He didn't have to keep track of his diet anymore, since the season was over next week. Even if they weren't Benedict Cumberbatch waffles, Francis had obviously worked hard on them, and they probably tasted almost as good as a ProSnax bar.

Alfred plodded—_thump-thump-thump_—down the stairs, where the scent of maple syrup slapped him in the face. Sometimes Mattie's maple syrup habit was a pain, but at least the house always smelled good. Although they all had a mutual worry for the future of Mattie's teeth.

"_Alors, comment__est votre __Honors Math__va__bien sûr__?_" French echoed from the kitchen; Mattie and Papa must be having a conversation.

"_Assez bien. L'enseignant est un peu désagréable, mais nous faire notre travail. Ce est intéressant._" Mattie. It irked Alfred, sometimes, Mattie's bilingual abilities. He himself wasn't half bad at Spanish, but Mattie was the one getting special treatment from Papa because he took after him. Always the favorite. He let out a little sigh, before entering the kitchen.

"_Eh bien, je__suis heureux que vous__vous plaisez_—Oh, Alfred! Just in time, they're the perfect temperature," Francis said, sweeping over to the countertop and placing the plate of steaming waffles gracefully in front of Alfred, complete with a smattering of powdered sugar and some fruit compote in a twee little bowl on the side. "_Bon appétit,_" he grinned. "And tell me what you think, I would love to make them again."

"Thanks Papa," Alfred replied drowsily, stretching his arms out in a yawn before preying upon the breakfast. Across the table, Mattie's half-eaten waffles were drowning, gasping for air in the sea of maple syrup that was presently engulfing them. God, he would probably _drink _the stuff if Papa and Dad weren't there to stop him.

"So Alfred, how are _your _classes going?" Francis prompted, whilst transferring last night's dishes from the dishwasher to the cabinets. "We were just discussing Mattie's math, how about you?"

"Hmm?" Alfred looked up from the meal, already bored with the conversation. He knew where this was going, the wench. "Fine."

"Oh, well…" Francis trailed off, a little uncomfortable. "You see, I was checking up on your grades via the online portal, and it said you had a…" He made an odd little face trying to remember the exact score. "72? Percent on your last test." Alfred cringed to himself. Oh yeah. That one. The one he hadn't studied for because he felt so tired he could barely throw on his PJ's before tumbling into bed.

"You know, this kind of thing…it worries your Dad and I. We only want the best for you, Alfred," Francis continued. In the background, Mattie started looking squeamish; he knew exactly how this would _play out, too. "I know you are qualified for the advanced math, you are most certainly smart enough, and_ there's no reason for you to be placed in a lower level."

"I was just having a bad day, that's all," Alfred grumbled, stuffing more of the food in his mouth. Maybe Papa would stop talking if his mouth was so full he couldn't breathe.

"Do you…want Mattie to help you study again? I'm sure he—"

"NO, Papa, I don't want Mattie to help me study again! I'm doing just fine on my OWN, thank you very much." He set down his fork and knife.

"Alright, well, if it's not Mattie, then someone else should help you out. But your Dad and I really think you might benefit from it."

Alfred just stared straight ahead with dead eyes.

"There's a session next Saturday from 12 – 4; some of the Honors kids will be there tutoring. I can drive you, ok? It's just 4 hours, and then you're free for the rest of the weekend."

"_I can study on my own, Papa. _I was only behind for a bit 'cause of football. It's no big deal."

Francis, finished with the dishes, hung up his apron as he tried to leave the kitchen. "Take it up with your Dad, Alfie. I don't know if it's…negotiable or not."

"Papa! I don't want to go!" Alfred said, his voice growing louder with each word.

"Alfred, _se il vous plait. _We can talk about this tonight at dinner," he pleaded, inching toward the exit.

"NO! Tell Dad I'm not going! I can handle it, it's _just high school,_" Alfred yelled, irate.

"Alfred…please, we have to go to school…" Mattie said softly, but his voice was drowned out by his brother's.

"Sweetheart, you need to get ready. We haven't made any definite decisions about the session yet, we just thought we might suggest it."

"_Forget it. _I'm taking my shower," Alfred responded darkly. He rose abruptly from the chair, making an awful scraping sound against the tile, and shoved his papa aside to get through the doorway. They could hear his heavy footsteps receding back up to the second floor. Francis looked down at his feet, still clutching the apron. And Mattie was curled up on the chair, having completely lost his appetite for his spongy, syrup-marinated waffles.

During the conflict, the steam from Alfred's half-eaten breakfast had ceased to rise, and the delectable Belgian waffles sat there, stone cold.

(1) You can probably guess who, judging by the recipe they gave him. Another name suggested by Himaruya :P


	3. Metaphorical Potential In Closets

He somehow managed to make even his shower obnoxious; turning the knob to "scalding" and running it for 5 minutes while he shaved his chin effectively ruined the morning for everyone else besides Mattie, whose blood probably ran at 20°F above normal. While it was below freezing outside on yet another dreary November day, Alfred was an angsty teenage boy and therefore didn't give a crap so long as it got him away from his parents. Therefore he fled the house 25 minutes before the bus was scheduled to arrive, the finishing blow to the tyrannical dictatorship that ran the home being rebelliously leaving his coat behind in plain sight on the couch in the living room.

About 5 minutes in he realized this was a terrible mistake, and, having an average body temperature of 98.6F, had no choice but to sneak back in while no one was looking and fetch a jacket (or 5). Ditching his backpack at the bus stop (extra weight), he ran home, slowing down and sneaking under the window.

Ah-HA!

The lower level of the house was unguarded, and from what he could tell from his vantage point, so was the kitchen, aside from a pot on the stove, and the creaky narrow staircase (originally intended for a maid) which led right up to his bedroom. Astonished at his good fortune, Alfred opened the front door with the utmost care, snuck across the hall and ducked into the kitchen. Empty.

He proceeded up the stairs, snatched the necessary clothes from his drawer, and tiptoed back down the staircase—

Shit.

In the middle of the kitchen was a half-awake Englishman, waiting impatiently on his soon-to-be green tea (infused with more caffeine than was probably good for him). Upon hearing the footsteps, he had turned to notice the louder son coming down the stairs, arms loaded with a hoodie, 2 sweaters and a pair of socks.

"Oh—good morning, Alfred," he said, holding his hand to his mouth as he yawned. Shoot, now he would have to make contact. Arthur's bony feet stuck out from under his plaid calf-length, forest green bathrobe. Apparently he was aware enough to have put on the matching slippers, as well.

"Uh. Morning, Dad," Alfred responded awkwardly. It seemed like there was no way out of this without some sort of interaction, but from what he could tell Dad hadn't heard the kerfuffle earlier. Maybe they were still on good terms, at least for 5 minutes. (That was the longest they had ever gone without arguing, according to Francis. Which usually ended in an argument with him.)

"You off to school? Bit early for the bus," he continued, a cloud of steam rising as he checked on the progress of the water. Not even close to boiling.

"Yeah…" Alfred struggled to think of an excuse. "I was just gonna…" _Study in the living room? Good one, he'll approve of that. _"I got up early to study," he concluded.

"Hmm…well, that's very good of you," Arthur replied, rubbing his right eye. Suddenly he seemed to remember something. "Which reminds me…your Papa and I were going to ask you about a study session at your high school on Saturday."

_UGH._

"There were supposed to be some very accomplished kids there to help out with the tutoring and such…"

"Oh, yeah, Papa told me about that already. I don't think I'm gonna go."

"We thought it might help you with your math, that's all. I know…" He concentrated. "My friend Yao—do you remember him? From my work?"

" ," replied Alfred, bored. It was probably better to stay in his favor, though. Dad tended to bring up old grudges in a very violent manner after having a bit to much to drink, and today was a Friday.

Yup. Definitely best to humor him.

"Yes, that chap. His nephew was going to be one of the tutors there. You two are in the same grade, if I remember correctly. He's a sophomore, taking your math, just Honors."

"How interesting," he responded, his voice dripping with sarcasm. What? He couldn't help it! This conversation was so played out and repetitive; it took place in some form at least once a week.

"Very. Kiku…Honda, I believe. Do you know him?"

Even his _name _sounded shrimpy. Wait, no, don't judge people you've never met. "Nope, never heard of him."

"Right, well, he's one of the star players on the baseball team, so I figured you might know him."

Star _baseball player_? How had he never heard of this kid? Forget everything he just said, this Kiku guy sounded worth getting to know. "Isn't baseball a spring sport?"

"He plays on the football team, too, but baseball is his real passion."

Now he was just plain confused. Maybe Dad was finally going senile. "Uh, _I'm _on the football team. And I can tell you for sure this Kiku kid isn't on it."

"Hmm? Oh, pardon me, I suppose I meant soccer. US English is such a _queer _language…well, would you look at that, my tea is done." The old fart removed the pot from the stove and poured it into a little floral mug, releasing the familiar scent of herbs and magical spices into the air. Alfred inhaled the homey smell and headed for the door.

_I suppose that went a lot better than it could have, _he thought to himself, hurrying to the bus stop before Papa or Mattie came downstairs and spotted him. Jogging in the fresh air felt good, and his brain slowed down for a bit, taking in(1) the feeling of frigid wind against every unprotected patch of skin. His eyes squeezed shut to keep out the harsh cold, but teared up at the edges anyway. Around him, the trees turned gray, the world began its transformation into a dull monotone. The only color was a brilliant red cardinal, but alas! he was at present holed up in his home. Even the evergreens turned ever gray, and an image came to mind: when it snowed, he would cut himself; cut himself all over and then—then he would lie down in the snow, and bleed into it, and fade into the colorless world of winter, and leave everything behind in exchange for a nothing unimaginable. It was oddly comforting, just the cold world pressed against his back, consciousness slowly fading away. Like falling asleep for the very last time.

But he had arrived at the bus stop, the artificial red sign glaring at him through early morning fog, and his buddies soon after, and then Mattie, and soon the bus was there too (7 minutes late as usual). Alfred was swept back up into the crazy whirlwind that surrounded him, scurrying through halls to get to classes he didn't care about. To finish homework he didn't care about. To please people he didn't care about.

But he had friends, right? He had his friends, and while Mattie was made out to be this golden version of a teenager by Papa and Dad sometimes, he was still his brother, and he still loved him, of course he did. And Toris(2) might be a nerd, but they had been friends since elementary school. They still hung out and played Call of Duty together; Alfred had even considered him as the first person he would come out to, but Toris had to leave and his resolve broke. And there was Gil, and Feli was a real sweetheart, and Feli's boyfriend Ludwig (not like it was official or anything, but it was pretty ob—)

"Hey. Hey! Alfred, I'm talking to you…"

"Mattie, didn't see you there," he responded, awoken from his thoughts. (Thank goodness, they were starting to make him uncomfortable.)

"We're here," he said, pointing out the window at the large concrete box someone had smacked a few letters on and proclaimed a high school.

"Oh. K," he replied. Alfred twisted up his earbuds into a nifty little pattern he learned from Buzzfeed (the source of all knowledge), tossed them in his backpack, and pulled himself up. Jesus, Mattie was _thin. _They were basically the same height, too—but next to him, Alfred looked so thick. Mattie wasn't a sports buff, though, he probably ate less. Huh.

He lumbered down the aisle, down one set of steps and back up another, opening the door to a world of chaos known simply as high school. Posters covered every available surface, and random students were constantly adding more: notices from the school, club ads, PSA's, and a Pride Awareness Week flyer. The entrance hall was _huge, _and the already insane din was only amplified by the high ceilings and unpainted concrete walls. A giant banner with a lineart of the school mascot on it hung from the second floor walkway, infamous for being a common crime scene at least once a week, claiming first-floor victims via water balloons, old food, and even a few books (not hardcovers, though). Throngs of teenagers congregated in little cliques, yelling to each other in a futile effort to be heard over the tangled mess of words. (But you all know what high school looks like.)

It took about 5 seconds for someone to sneak up behind him and _violently _smack him on the back. It knocked the air out of his lungs, but he was a tough guy, and he had to pretend he could breathe because that's what tough guys do.

"ALFRED! How you doing today, man?!" said a swaggy German accent.

"h…hey, Gil," he said, sucking as much pure, sweet oxygen as he could muster.

"We still on for the party tonight?" He lowered his voice a smidge (at least for Gil, anyway). "There's some real good beer back at my place. I'm bringing some of our German stuff," he mentioned, accompanied by a wicked grin.

"Just try not to let your younger brother ground you again," Al retaliated, wiping the grin off his face. He received a hearty punch in the arm.

"Seriously though, you going to be there?" Gilbert pushed.

"Look, I've still got football practice after school. I dunno how much of a party mood I'll be in after running my ass off for 3 hours."

"Hey, I've got soccer practice for the same amount of time as you and I'm hosting the damn thing!"

Alfred's face lit up. "Hey Gil, there a Honda on your team?"

"What, like the car?" he cackled.

"No, dumbass, it's someone's name. Kiku Honda ring a bell?"

"Yeah, what's it to you, pretty boy?"

Alfred returned the earlier punch. "If you call me 'pretty boy' one more time I'm gonna have to start calling you 'schnitzel'."

"Wow, so clever, you RACIST." Punch.

"It's not _racist_, idiot." Punch-punch. "Whatever. So is Honda gonna be at practice today or not?"

"How the hell should I know, I'm not his _mother_. What's your beef with this kid anyway?"

"Nuthin', my dad wanted me to ask him something is all." He flashed a smile.

"Hmm, right." Gilbert stood there contemplatively for a moment before announcing to the hall, "ALFRED'S GOTTA CRUSH—" A bunch of cheerleaders turned around excitedly at the proclamation and squealed. Alfred tackled him from behind and clapped his hand over his mouth, wrestling Gilbert to the ground. "I'm not GAY, dumbass. Don't out me to the whole school if I'm not even in the closet in the first place," Alfred argued, pinning Gil's arm behind his back.

"HA, sure, keep telling yourself that." Gil grinned in response, just as the bell for Homeroom rang.

Alfred released the bastard and watched him scurry off in the opposite direction of where he himself was headed. He sighed and began walking, going a full 20 seconds before being ambushed by some of his football teammates. But even as the conversation topic turned towards Irina Chernenko's (3) rack and whether she had any sisters, the idea of a cute little Japanese baseball star stuck in the back of his mind. (Like, Jesus, he hadn't even seen the guy yet.)

There's a word for this in German, _genießen_, which would have been a much better fit. It doesn't really have an English equivalent though, sadly; it's unparalleled.

Lithuania's human name according to Himaruya.

Hmmm. Now which Hetalia character is ridiculously well-known for her cup size?


End file.
